


Something Human

by tclp



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief, HankCon Reverse Big Bang, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Reference to suicide attempts (Russian roulette), Soft HankCon, wireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tclp/pseuds/tclp
Summary: Hank hasn't allowed himself to grieve for Cole."You're punishing yourself." It's not an accusation, Connor says it like it's a certainty, a simple statement that leaves Hank with nowhere to hide.





	Something Human

**Author's Note:**

> Art by minttupiirakka. You can see their beautifully tender and atmospheric art [here](https://twitter.com/minttupiirakka/status/1178412346810732547).
> 
> This was written for the Hank/Connor Reverse Big Bang 2019. [You can find the HCRBB 2019 Collection here.](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HankConReverseBigBang2019)

> _"Don't—don't go._  
Don't carry it to someone else this time.  
Tell me about it if it’s something human.  
Let me into your grief."

— _Home Burial,_ Robert Frost

It's a rare thing for Hank and Connor to synch up their vacation days. They've had to cash in favors and agreed to cover New Year's, but by mid-January they have five whole days to themselves. Their own little winter holiday.

They leave the precinct early on a Wednesday afternoon, confident that if anything turns up, Ben can handle their cases for them.

The Oldsmobile groans as Hank drives them to the grocery store. Hank keeps the air flow from the vents at a minimum while the engine warms up, but he's still shivering under his winter coat. It's worn soft and comfortable, but no longer much help against Detroit's winters. They're turning onto the grocery's street when the car's temperature vainly rises from cool to warm-ish.

_"We've been keeping an eye on that storm for you, Detroit. And Indiana is sending a blizzard our way. We should see its effect starting around seven pm tonight. Expect temperatures to plummet—"_

Hank turns off the radio, no longer paying attention to the forecast. He curses internally and grips the wheel tighter. When he'd planned his days off, it hadn't been with a mind to stay indoors the entire time.

In the passenger seat, Connor leans forward to observe him, frowning.

"Shit. Were you listening to that?"

"No." Connor taps the side of his head. Right, he can look up whatever he wants.

Still, Hank feels like a jerk for not asking first.

"It looks like people are getting ready to hole up," Connor says when they drive into a packed parking lot.

The short strip mall houses a handful of stores including a comparatively large supermarket as well as the refurbished CyberLife store where Connor buys Thirium. Hank glances that way while waiting for a family to cross the street and he can see a line of people, huddled on the sidewalk that runs along the strip.

"I don't want to see what the place will look like in an hour," Hank says, dreading rush hour.

Hank finds a free parking spot and doesn't hesitate to grab it even if it's in the last row. The sooner they can get their things, the sooner they can head home.

A gust of wind finds its way under his collar the second he steps out of the car, and Hank's shoulders jump up to protect his neck.

Out of the two of them, Connor is the one dressed for the weather. He's wearing his first attempt at knitting: a scarf of overlapping burgundy, brown, and purple geometric shapes. Very 80's. For all that Hank knows about knitting, it's possible Connor found the pattern in a 50 year old magazine.

Connor had been a little disappointed with the results—something about not liking his choice of trim—but it looks fine to Hank. More than fine. (Somehow it doesn't look dated on Connor. The warm, dark colors bring out his eyes, contrast his pale skin.) He persuaded Connor to keep it.

"This your first blizzard?" Hank asks as they make their way to the mall. Connor is usually excited about new first experiences, but he's subdued at Hank's side.

"Yes."

"Hmm." Hank hunkers down in his coat and turns up the collar against rising winds. "We got lucky last year."

Connor reaches for Hank's hand. His glove is soft against Hank's cracked and winter-dry skin when he rubs his thumb over Hank's knuckles. It doesn't keep Hank warm, exactly, but he's distracted from the cold.

"At least we won't have to haul ass to work in that weather. I don't think my car could handle it," Hank says.

"It might not survive in the driveway either."

Hank glances at Connor; he's smiling, teasing. Hank knows it's not just a joke, though. Connor has been looking for a large project to occupy his free time, and he's asked once before about making space for himself in the garage. Hank gets it: Connor doesn't need sleep or down time, not the way Hank does. All those hours while Hank is asleep must get boring. Hank isn't eager to let Connor look through all that, however.

They reach the mall's sidewalk and Hank trips over himself, eager to end this particular line of conversation.

"Hey, how about I take care of my human stuff while you grab Thirium? Avoid waiting in line twice?"

Connor blinks. No doubt he can hear the strain in Hank's voice, see his rising stress levels.

"I'd rather not wait in line outside."

"Of course."

"Great." Hank squeezes Connor's hand before he lets go, veering towards the warm air blasting out of the supermarket's automatic doors.

*

They arrive home as the sun sets, carrying enough food and Thirium to last them through the week. The wind has picked up, and Hank struggles to breathe when he faces the incoming blast on his way to the front door. The snow hasn't started yet, but it's obvious Sumo's evening walk will be a miserable affair.

They're huddled on the couch—thawing after a freezing walk that even Sumo wasn't eager to prolong—while thick snow comes down in gusts.

Hank becomes distracted, not particularly interested in Connor's pick of _Flee Market Wonders_ playing quietly on the tv. He rests his head against the back of the couch and falls into a sort of waking rest as he stares out the living room window. It's dark out, and the glass reflects the light from the tv, but he can also make out slashes of snow as they pass under the lampposts lining the street. The sight is hypnotizing. Meditative, maybe.

Every year, he fools himself into enjoying the first snow storm. It's the crisp air, the fact that snow hides all the depressing grey of fall. But it's January now, and this storm is ruining his vacation plans.

Connor shifts against his side, taking his head off Hank's shoulder. He looks amused.

"You look half asleep. We should save a few episodes, for the next time you have insomnia."

Hank snorts and shrugs his shoulder to lightly jostle Connor. "It's not your show. Just, thinking about how I probably can't get anything done this week with the blizzard."

Connor's gazes fixes on him. "You'd made plans?"

Hank hums, keeping his answer vague. He was looking forward to this week off and dreading it in equal parts. The last time they had a vacation—or rather, during Hank's suspension—he hadn't been at his best, to say the least. So this time around, he'd compiled a list of tasks around the house to keep himself busy.

"Not really. Errands I need to make. Repairs around the house, you know. That leaking pipe under the sink. That sort of thing. But for that I'd need to go to the hardware store, and…" Hank gestures at the window. "Don't think they'll be open in this."

Connor's LED spins yellow. "No, they've put up a closed notice on their website."

Hank sighs. "Great."

"I can't say I'm happy about the timing, either. I was hoping we could visit Ann Arbor."

"Yeah? What's in Ann Arbor?"

Connor only raises an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, right." Hank says, trying to sound like he's only now remembering.

Connor leans in to be heard over the raised volume of the commercial break. "You still haven't told me if you're interested, though. So it's not like I was counting on it."

Hank mutes the tv when it switches to a commercial showing a family in an autonomous car. "I don't know, Connor. Winter gardens? Sounds like I'd pay fifteen bucks just to freeze outside and see the same thing we're getting for free right now."

"What about the Japanese garden that just opened up in Toronto?"

"What? You wanted to go this week?"

"Yes, I'm sure it looks great this time of year."

Hank snorts in spite of himself.

"We could make the trip in July," Connor says.

Hank scratches the back of his neck. He feels self-conscious under Connor's unrelenting gaze, like he's being assessed on something more than his taste in vacation destinations.

"I don't know, Connor. You sure you want to look at more zen gardens?"

Connor blinks before his expression morph into something fragile and with such open affection that Hank wants to shy away from it, to protest that this isn't for him. He concentrates instead on the spike of underlying rage—at Kamski, at Amanda, at the faceless entity that is CyberLife—because over a year after deviating, Connor can still be caught off guard when Hank takes his well-being into account.

"Hank." Connor's head tips forward, and he seems surprised when their noses bump together, as if he didn't intend to move. He draws back slightly, and spreads a hand over Hank's thigh. "Yes, I'm certain. I'll be fine. It doesn't look anything like Amanda's garden."

"That's, uh, good."

"They have a bonsai pavilion. I thought you'd enjoy it."

"Look, I'm not saying it doesn't sound interesting. But is it worth the hassle of getting an android visitor's permit?"

Canada is figuring its shit out, but it's taking time. Which leaves androids with a ridiculous number of hoops to jump through if they want to step over that border.

"Hank, it would take me less than a second to fill out the necessary requests for the trip."

Hank hums, and nods at the tv, ignoring Connor's stare boring into the side of his face.

"What's the real problem?"

"Your show's back on."

Connor snatches the remote from his hand before Hank has time to register the movement. The show pauses. Dammit.

"Hank?"

"Connor," Hank says, deadpan and annoyed to be cornered like this is some sort of interrogation. "I'll think about it, okay?" He lets some of the anger spill into his voice and regrets it immediately when Connor's expression blanks.

Connor nods jerkily before he turns back to the tv and resumes the show. Hank can't see his face like this, but Connor rests his head on Hank's shoulder, just as before. That's good, Hank tries to tell himself, no hard feelings, then. Probably.

Hank can't pay attention for the rest of the hour. He's uncomfortable, sitting with a low churning of guilt, then angry that he's feeling guilty in the first place.

He's been giving Connor these non-answers for a while, now. There's no end to Connor's suggestions and Hank is exhausted just hearing about them.

It's not that Hank doesn't want to visit Ann Arbor, Toronto, New York or wherever Connor comes up with next time. That's not it…exactly.

It just doesn't seem worth it.

A visit to Ann Arbor in the winter would be enough of an indulgence. Hank doesn't see the point of driving over 240 miles and across a border—he did check the route from Detroit to Toronto, though he's not sure why he bothered—just because he use to have an interest in bonsai. Or, well, has a renewed interest in bonsai. Either way, it's a hobby, not a big deal.

Besides, how is it fun for Connor? To waste days of his limited of vacation time on a trip to a country that doesn't accept android citizens just so Hank can stand in a _pavilion_ and say, "Yep, that tree sure is tiny."

The worst of it is, Connor would do it. Happily so, going by the way he keeps suggesting things for Hank's sake. It makes Hank feel uneasy for a reason he hasn't been able to pinpoint.

He hasn't told Connor that he's known for years about the Ann Arbor winter gardens. He never visited by himself. What would be the point of dragging Connor along if he hasn't bothered to make the trip even once in all those years?

By the time Hank is ready to turn in for the night, Connor doesn't seem to have any lingering resentment. Hank is relieved when Connor's the one to lean in for a good night kiss. Connor doesn't need to recharge, so he stays in the living room while Hank goes about his evening routine.

In his bedroom, Hank peers at the street through his window. The wind gusts are rattling street signs, and the dead, frost-bitten grass has disappeared under several inches of snow.

Hank gets into bed, rubbing his cold feet together under the covers. He's wrestled the sickly churn in his stomach to some semblance of calm. The drowsiness side-effect of his antidepressants does the rest of the work, and he feels the pleasant heaviness of sleep tugging at his mind.

Still, it takes him longer than usual to let go into sleep. He's not sure if it's the blizzard or Connor's questions, but Hank wishes Connor was here, too, needing rest. He scoots over to Connor's side of the bed and falls asleep with his face pressed against Connor's pillow.

*

Hank wakes to darkness. Something is wrong. He can feel the sickly sense of mounting panic wrenching away any remains of sleep as he tries to pinpoint the source of the problem.

The house is dead silent around him. There's no electric hum, no gurgling pipes or clunking from the radiators. It's eerie.

He rips the blanket from himself, sits at the edge of the bed and grabs his old radio clock: it's blank. The power has gone out, that's all.

Hank lets himself fall back onto the rumpled covers.

"Get it together, old man." Hank rubs his palms over his face, none too gently. He groans, annoyed with himself for ruining the first morning of this short vacation; there's no way in hell he's falling back asleep with his system coming down from high alert.

The power comes back as Hank stands in front of the fridge, trying to convince himself that orange juice is an acceptable substitute for coffee. He doesn't technically _need_ to be alert on his day off.

The sun remains hidden by the blizzard and as soon as the power returns, they turn the lights on in the house. It's strange to use lamps so early in the morning. Hank can't quite shake the eeriness that's keeping his insides in an uncomfortable grip. It reminds him—and the realization only increases the discomfort—of those days where he'd wake up from a bender just as the sun would set. He feels off kilter and like he's missed something important that's about to manifest itself in the worst way possible. It's like the swooping sensation in his stomach the split second before realizing he's missed a step going down stairs.

The house's electricity flickers on and off several times that morning. Mostly, it goes out only for a few minutes, but once the outage lasts an hour. It shouldn't feel like a long time, but with the howling winds and freezing temperatures, the house cools at an alarming pace. There's nothing meditative about the blizzard, now.

They're in the kitchen after lunch, standing on each side of the opened cabinet that hides his dishwasher, the lights blink off and back on. Sumo looks up from his water bowl and huffs.

"Do you have a generator?" Connor asks. Sumo comes to curl around his feet, and Connor bends to scratch his head.

"Yeah," Hank says, distracted. He scratches at a stain of a glass, unable to scrape it off with his short nails. Hank scowls; it looks like congealed orange juice pulp.

"We should set it up. In case the power cuts off again."

Hank fumbles the glass as he sets it aside for another wash.

"That's not—. We won't need it. There's a power station a few blocks away. Electricity won't out for long."

Hank's house has never lost power for more than a few hours at a time, being so close to some electrical substation, even during the worst storms. Even during Detroit's 2036's ice storm, though Hank had been black-out drunk for most of it, and only remembers glimpses of those 4 days. He wonders if those memories are the source of his unsettled feeling.

"The blizzard will get worse. We ought to take precautions."

As if on cue, the house creaks under a particularly strong blast of wind. They both look out the kitchen window, but little is visible beyond the curtain of falling snow. There's not much to see, in any case, only more snow blanketing the backyard. About nine inches, according to the midday news.

"You gonna be okay if you can't recharge?" Hank gestures towards the bedroom where they keep Connor's equipment.

Hank doesn't keep track of Connor's charging schedule, mostly because it's not a set schedule. Connor's need for energy fluctuates based on a number of factors. Connor also prefers to recharge at night. And Hank prefers it too, since it means they can share the bed without Connor forcing a sleep mode when he could be doing something more interesting. That way he doesn't have to pretend to sleep for Hank's sake.

Other times, when they've been through the wringer at work, Connor will have to visit the DPD's technicians for repairs. Afterwards, he'll recharge at the precinct. The DPD has set up a small room for the android employees who need it. The room used to be a sort of lounge or soft room, Hank thinks, because there are still a couple couches and a dimmer on the light switch.

When Connor makes use of that room, Hank will sit with him. He brings his work tablet, tells Connor he'll fill out reports. He does that, but he mainly allows himself to sit and stare at Connor until the day's tension has drained away.

"Hank?"

Hank startles, blinks at the sight of snow and refocuses on Connor. "Sorry?"

"I said: I'll be fine for at least another week."

"Right," Hank says as he slowly remembers the thread of their conversation. Generator. Charging schedule, right. "Right. That's good. We don't need to bother with the generator, then."

Connor looks at him with mild exasperation.

"I wasn't asking for myself."

"I can handle a little cold and discomfort."

"Hmm. But you don't have to."

Hank scowls at Connor's smirk. Fucking-A. What's he supposed to say to that?

Connor's LED spin yellow briefly, and Hank can take a guess at what's coming.

"The forecast is for temperatures to drop another fifteen degrees tomorrow. And the night will be worse."

That gives Hank pause. (He takes the last plate out of the dishwasher, stalling, and dries it half-heartedly with his damp dish towel. He could grab a dry one from the cabinet, but they're nearly done.) He hadn't expected the house to cool so much during the hour they lost power right before lunch. Even Sumo had been upset, refusing to settle in his bed or on the couch with Connor until they'd coaxed him to lie down at their feet with a few treats.

Setting up the generator is the reasonable thing to do, the smart and logical thing. Hank isn't getting out of it, but he still doesn't want Connor in the garage. Hell, Hank would rather not go either.

Hank turns to set the plate in the cabinet. He attempts to wipe his hands on the dish towel. When he's as dry as he'll get, he folds it up and hangs it on the oven's door handle.

"Okay. I'll set it up."

"I'll help you."

"Nah," Hank drawls, aiming for unconcerned, but his voice is too strained. "Since it's for my human comfort, I'll take care of it."

Maybe it's a little unfair to evoke their understanding that while they've split chores around the house where they both live, Hank doesn't want Connor taking on more than his share. He doesn't want Connor to be made to feel like a household android. Connor's extra free time is his own.

Still, Hank is disquieted by his own words and he pats Connor's shoulder as he passes him, internally flinches at his awkward attempt to…he's not even sure. Apologize, maybe.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Connor's yellow LED and assessing stare. He ignores it and walks to the interior door that leads to the garage. It's locked, as usual, but the key is on a hook by the door.

Hank steps inside and closes the door.

The garage is cold and drafty, the steel panels of the sectional door rattle as if the wind has a mind to get inside. Hank shivers as he flips on the light: a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its glare is simultaneously harsh and not nearly enough to light the corners of the room.

Hank stands on the threshold for a moment, getting used to the cool, humid air. He has the strange impression of being an intruder in his own home, in this room that he hasn't visited in months. Though, it's just as he left it with dozens of boxes littering the concrete floor, and the broken green refrigerator tucked against a wall. The fridge had belonged to the former owner and came with the house. It had broken within a month.

Hank draws closer to the only shelf unit he bothered to assemble after moving in. The other shelves are still in the store's plain brown cardboard packages, piled against the wall.

One shelf had been enough to house Cole's boxes.

Hank tries not to get sucked into memories of packing Cole's room, but it's one of the few clear moments from those foggy months that followed the accident. He hadn't labelled the boxes, but he didn't need to, even today he can still remember what's in each one.

A muffled snap comes from the kitchen, a cabinet door closing. It frazzles Hank. The sickly electricity of anxiety that woke him up creeps back along his neck, as if it had been lying just under the surface, ready to emerge.

Hank moves away from the shelf. He spots the generator in the back right corner of the garage and curses when he realizes that to access it, he'll need to haul a couple dozens of boxes out of the way.

When he bends to pick up the first boxes, there's a slight shake in his hands.

Hank tries to make this quick. He feels pressed for time as if Connor will burst in if he takes too long.

He almost puts down the boxes in front of the shelf, but he hates the idea of caging it behind piles of guest linens and basketball memorabilia. Instead, he shuffles further away, and puts the boxes by the refrigerator.

One of the boxes at the bottom of the pile is marked fragile, and Hank hesitates, but in the end he'd rather not waste time rearranging the pile. It's not likely he'll ever need what's in there, anyway.

On the other side of the door, comes the noise of Sumo barking. Connor's low voice, probably in answer to Sumo. Floorboards creak and pipes rattle. Mostly, Hank hears his own harsh breaths.

In spite of the cold, sweat runs down Hank's temples and makes his t-shirt stick to the small of his back. Every time he bends down, he has to push back strands of hair that keep falling into his eyes.

When he hears Connor laugh through the door, it seems to come from the hallway, and Hank nearly falls, tripping over a box. He catches himself, hand shooting out to press against the wall.

"Fuck," Hank says. He says it again a few times, for good measure.

His fingers are numb. The shaking has migrated to deep inside his chest. He feels the panic attack coming on and increasing tenfold when he contemplates leaving the garage, facing Connor who'll want to understand why Hank is upset.

He can't stay here, though. He needs to not be sucking in this humid cold that stings at his lungs. He needs water and to sit down.

He's closing the bathroom door before his brain catches up to his decision to risk the hallway, risk running into Connor. He can't remember if he closed the garage door, but he doesn't dare check.

Hank closes the toilet lid and sits there, wiping the cold sweat from his face with balled up tissue paper. It was starting to sting his eyes, and he feels marginally better from having one fewer thing grating as his nerves.

Hank attempts a breathing exercise as he sits, but the anxiety is tricky to settle even after months of practicing the exercises suggested by his therapist.

Hank gets up, moves to the sink and runs the water as cold as it'll go over the back of his hands and forearms. His breathing starts to slow on its own as the sting of ice-cold water pulls him out of his spiralling mind.

His awareness shifts from catching every small noise of the house to his own body, from reaction to presence. His scattered thoughts focus until he's only conscious of standing at his bathroom sink, of his even breaths, of the cold water on his skin, of the hair sticking to his forehead.

The panic attacks came along with his most recent attempt at sobriety. He's joked to Dr. Garza that it was almost worth it to keep drinking if he could avoid this. The comment had come on the heels of a week where he'd had two attacks in quick succession, the first ones since his twenties.

It wasn't entirely a joke.

Hank avoids looking at the mirror when he open the cabinet to grab a hair tie. Connor left a post-it note there yesterday morning. _Go back to bed. I'm making breakfast._

Hank pulls his sweaty hair into a bun. He bends over the sink and splashes water on his face.

Hank wipes his face on a towel and stares at the closed door. He'd gladly go back to bed right about now. Sleep away the blizzard and the power outages. Ignore what waits for him in the garage.

God, he's a fucking mess.

He doesn't understand why he hasn't told Connor, yet. Why he's avoiding the subject of—of his son. Connor already knows. He's seen the photograph. He found out about the accident and knows what it did to Hank.

Connor figured it out of his own, though, and it had made it simpler for Hank; he'd only confirmed what Connor already knew.  
Hank knows he's waited too long to let Connor know about the boxes. Every single thing of Cole's, packed and waiting in the garage. Hank couldn't throw a single thing away. He kept every drawing, every macaroni art project, the sippy cup and books. To tell Connor now, it would be like admitting guilt. And Hank is so fucking tired of feeling guilty.

He doesn't know how to start telling Connor something like this.

Well, maybe he does, a little bit. When he'd wanted to ask Connor to move in, Dr. Garza had said to take in one step at a time. Divide the process. Though this doesn't seem like a conversation he can break into steps. Either Hank tells Connor or he doesn't. Hinting wouldn't work, not with Connor. Hank tries to laugh at the idea, but it gets stuck in his chest.

The best he can come up with in terms of steps is to finish setting up the generator. Then he'll take a shower to wash off the cold sweat, and after… he'll figure out a way to tell Connor. Gradually if that's even possible.

Hank steps out into the hallway. The garage door is open. Sumo sits on the threshold and looks up at Hank when he approaches, his tail thumping heavily against the worn carpet.

Connor is in the garage, in front of the shelf. Hank can only see his back, but there's a yellow glow at the side of his face.

Hank stalls in the doorway. Connor turns and his expression is blank. It sends a shiver down Hank's spine.

"Did you scan the boxes?" Hank voice sounds like it comes from very far away, something detached from his body.

Connor hesitates, it's barely perceptible, but Hank knows Connor too well not to notice. For a brief moment, Hank wonders if Connor has been in the garage before, maybe while Hank was asleep, or walking Sumo, or—

"Yes."

Hank lets his head fall forward until it thunks against the doorframe.

"Hank?"

"Yeah?" Hank drawls, reluctant.

"I noticed—. Can I ask you a personal question?"

Hank laughs, not that it's funny. So they're back to this, huh? Back to Connor wanting answers, but thinking Hank needs to be coaxed into opening up. He might not be entirely wrong, but it's a step backwards, an anachronism in their relationship.

Hank feels like a fool for ever hoping he could have this conversation without feeling sick with guilt.

"Ask me your question."

"How much have you kept?"

Some tension Hank hadn't noticed until now lifts from his shoulders, leaving behind an ache, but also relief. He's relieved not to be asked _why?_ when he has no answer.

"Everything," Hank says, his voice harder than he'd intended.

Connor flinches. Hank can't tell if it's his tone or his answer that causes him pain.

"Do you think that's…healthy? To keep all these reminders around?"

Hank straightens up. He grips the doorjamb, knuckles going white. "I don't need _things_ to remember my son, Connor. I don't need to go looking through boxes to know he hated the dark, or that he was going through a dinosaur phase when—" Hank looks away, can't hold Connor's stare.

"Of course, Lieutenant."

Hank deflates, the anger gone just as quickly as it came. "Ah, hell. Connor, don't…" He doesn't know how to finish that sentence; don't get all formal and distant, don't blame yourself, don't come poking where you know I'm still bleeding.

He didn't mean to keep Connor in the dark, it was never a conscious decision. He's spent years guarding Cole's memory all by himself. Part of Hank resents the people who'd known him before the accident, those who could see the changes in him. They'd tried at first, but Hank is exceptionally talented at keeping people out.

But then, Connor showed up. To his surprise, Connor doesn't hold a grudge for how Hank had acted, the things he'd said that first week. He doesn't judge Hank based on his lowest moments. Even a year later, Hank's thoughts reel when he tries to make sense of it all; the first time they'd met, Connor had to bribe him with a drink to get him out of _Jimmy's._ Who would stick around after that?

"The other boxes are labelled, but not… not the ones on the shelf."

Hank nods to himself. "The boxes…" He rubs his nose, fights the burn behind his eyes. "I wrote what's in them 'cause I knew I'd forget by the time I went looking. But Cole's…" Hank gestures to the metal shelf. "I didn't want to put it away for good. Couldn't."

Hank can't rely on his voice, it wavers, gives out. He looks at Connor, silently pleading him to understand Hank's half-assed explanation of something he's putting into words for the first time. He remembers standing in Cole's bedroom in their old house. He remembers holding the thick black marker, the stink of it coating the air as he stared at Cole's boxes. He'd been unable to mark the boxes, to acknowledge they were to be put away even in this small, insignificant way.

"I understand."

Hank watches as Connor approaches and crowds into his space until all he can see is Connor.

"You're punishing yourself." It's not an accusation, Connor says it like it's a certainty, a simple statement that leaves Hank with nowhere to hide.

Hank's breath rushes out of him, he feels newly hollowed out in the face of his choices.

Arms wrap around him. Hank is allowed to sag against Connor as he's wracked with conflicting grief and relief.

*

Connor holds Hank for a while, there in the garage's doorway. When the worst of it has passed through Hank, Connor pulls him to the living room, then down onto the couch. They lie, tangled around each other until Hank drifts, losing his sense of time.

The day has left Hank wrung out, body and mind eager to shut off for a while, though it's not yet mid-afternoon. The effort necessary to walk to his bed currently feels like more than he could handle. He's also worried about what his mind might spring on him once he's alone in his bedroom. He never feels quite like himself after a panic attack. Or maybe it's that he feels too much like the most painful parts of himself, like every mental move he makes will leave him feeling too raw.

Maybe it's not entirely fair to use him as a crutch, but if Connor was to let go, Hank thinks he might end up braving the storm to find something to drink. So he stays with Connor. Hank lets himself enjoy the comfort of being held and touched aimlessly. For once, he's not feeling self-conscious about Connor's attention.

It's Sumo who makes them realize they've lost track of time when he whines, pawing at the front door.

"Shit," Hank says without heat.

"He needs a walk."

"Uh, no. I'm not taking a walk in this. We can let him out back."

"Alright, but you're coming outside, too."

"You can leave me for five minutes, Connor. I won't start drinking the second your back's turned," Hank says in spite of his own doubts. He hears how defensive he sounds. Connor has noticed, too, and his brows are pinched when Hank glances at him.

"Right. You sound completely fine."

Hank fights back a smile. He'd never tell Connor—goodness knows he doesn't need the encouragement—but from the start he respected Connor for calling him out on his bullshit. It reminds him that Connor genuinely gives a shit, and always has. Fuck knows why.

"I think you'll find it…unpleasant to stay in while we go outside," Connor says, diplomatically, and maybe realizing that Hank isn't ready to be left alone with his thoughts.

"Fine."

Hank rises first. He tries not to lean on Connor too much as he pulls off him, and Connor smirks as if he's amused by Hank's efforts. As if Hank could crush him.

They bundle up, and this time Hank doesn't skimp on scarves or gloves. He gets the thick wool mittens from a bin at the back of his closet to wear over the gloves. He doesn't want to risk frostbite.

The wind lashes at them the second they open the door. Hank can feel it while still inside the house from where he stands behind Connor and Sumo.

Connor reaches for Hank's hand and pulls him along to the back yard. Connor struggles to open the fence door, but once they're through, they're protected from the storm and Hank can breathe properly without angling his back to the wind.

The cold doesn't seem to bother Sumo. He's bounding in the snow, jumping and pulling on his leash as he carves a winding path through the yard. He stops to snuffle and dig only to come up with his muzzle caked in snow. He snorts it away and digs another hole.

Hank watches him, smiling faintly behind his scarf.

The fog lifts gradually from Hank's brain as he watches the storm from the relative safety of his fenced yard. Connor's keeps hold of his hand, but he gives Hank space, metaphorically speaking; he's watching Sumo's antics.

The grief and guilt are still there when Hank goes looking for them, but they don't overwhelm him. They're packed away, out of sight, but not gone.

Hank had forgotten—a little, just a little—how grief can be merciless.

By the time they're ready to return inside, Hank feels less troubled than he has all day.

Connor bumps his shoulder against Hank's to draw his attention and offers a smug smile.

"Are you monitoring my stress levels?"

"I always am, Hank."

"That's…" Hank shakes his head. The first word that springs to mind if 'weird', but he doesn't want to make Connor feel self-conscious. "Okay. Let's just get inside, I'm fucking freezing."

At the door, Hank holds Sumo in check while Connor gets old towels to dry off Sumo's fur. When Connor returns, Hank can hear a rushing sound from the bathroom.

"Did you leave the water running?"

"I'm drawing you a bath."

"I could just take a shower to warm up." And wash away the new layer of sweat he can feel building under his coat. They're crouching in the foyer and Hank hasn't been able to take it off while holding onto Sumo.

Connor smiles, crooked and distracting; Sumo almost slips away, but Connor catches him before he can drag ice and snow all over the house.

"Um. I was hoping you'd let me join you."

Heat rushes to Hank's frozen cheeks. They haven't done this often—and always at Connor's initiative—but Connor has caught on to how much Hank enjoys sharing baths.

The first time had been sort of an accident. Though, now he realizes, it might've been Connor's close monitoring that let him know Hank would agree. Hank had been taking a bath, slowly turning into putty in the hot water while Connor sat on the rim of the tub. He'd dipped his hand in the water, then his forearm, watching Hank closely in a way that had felt more like flirting than monitoring. He'd obviously been angling for an invitation to join Hank, and Hank had indulged him. He'd been indulging himself too, in truth, but he thought he'd kept that part a secret.

Connor must read the stutter of his heartbeat or however it is that Hank's body gives him away, because his LED cycles yellow for a bright second in the low wintery light.

This time, Sumo slips from their grip and rushes to his water bowl, lapping up loud mouthfuls.

When they stand, Connor gives Hank a look that feels more like a lingering touch. Hank blinks, senses stunned by unexpected heat.

"I'll check on the bath. Join me when you're ready."

*

His breath catches when he enters the bathroom. Connor is in the tub, stretched out in the steaming water.

When he hears Hank come in, Connor sits up, hooking an arm over the edge of the tub to watch Hank approach. Connor's hair is disheveled. From the wind, maybe. Hank hadn't…noticed until now, and his stomach lurches at the sight.

It's a perfectly constructed scene. Connor must've done it on purpose, but Hank doesn't mind the seduction, the distraction. The novelty hasn't worn off—he doesn't think it ever will—to experience Connor's focus turn on him this way. It feels so good to want and know he's wanted back, in equal measure. He wants to lose himself in it for as long as Connor will let him.

Hank is unsteady as he undresses. His eyes wander back to Connor again and again, without his permission, and he stumbles as he pulls off his socks. He'd better sit down, so he perches on the rim on the tub, angled somewhat away from Connor and hoping that'll clear his mind long enough for him to undress. It doesn't work because the second he sits down, Connor's hands find him, following the curve of his shoulder, caressing the tattooed skin of his thigh.

"Fuck, Connor. Let me get in before you jump my bones." Connor smirks up at him, and Hank cuts him off, anticipating the smart ass remark. "Don't. I can only take so much."

"You can take plenty," Connor says, and he has the audacity to look proud of himself when Hank flushes.

Hank shakes his head and Connor eases off, though he leaves a hand on Hank's knee.

Hank is crisply aware of Connor's eyes on him as he pulls off his sweater, then his faded band t-shirt, worn soft over the years. Every time an item of clothing passes over his head, the small glimpse of Connor at the corner of his eye is blocked out for a moment and, without meaning to, Hank seeks Connor as soon as he's pulled off another layer. He's inexorably drawn to him, as if Connor will disappear if he loses sight for a few seconds.

Hank hisses as he lowers himself between Connor's legs; the water is just on the wrong side of too hot. When he came back inside, Hank felt nearly frozen alive, and the sudden shock of slipping into hot water makes Hank lose his grip on the porcelain. Before his head can dip underwater, Connor pulls him against his chest, doing the work of holding them both above water.

Not for the first time, Hank sends silent thanks to the woman who sold him the house. She'd been even taller than Hank, and must've been fond of baths too because she'd installed a non-standard seven feet bathtub large enough for Hank and Connor to comfortably share.

Hank lets his head tip to the side, rests his forehead against Connor's cheek. Water laps at them, working out the blizzard's chill. It leaves Hank heavy-limbed and languid.

Every time they've shared a bath, Hank has had the same thought, that it's stupid he doesn't do this more often, and that it's not nearly as much work as he always assumes it will be.

"This was a good idea, darling," Hank says, words slurred a little as the bath's steam fogs up his mind. He runs his hand along Connor's arm, luxuriating in the sensation of their skin touching underwater. Connor pulls Hank closer, tightening his arms around him as if he's enjoying it too, and wants more contact.

Hank yawns and Connor chuckles, the vibrations felt along Hank's back.

"You're half-asleep and you haven't even washed yet."

Hank wants to deny that, but he realizes he's closed his eyes at some point and the weight in his limbs feels very much like sleep dragging him down. Eyes shut, Hank finds Connor's hand and brings it to his mouth, nipping at the fingertips until Connor gasps then laughs, pressing his smile to Hank's forehead.

"Don't you want to sleep?"

"Mhm. Later."

"Your hair needs a wash."

Hank grunts in acknowledgement, but makes no move for the shampoo bottle. He closes his lips around a finger, sucking gently as his mouth grows wet.

"Hank," Connor says in a sigh. It sounds like encouragement, but Hank can't help tease him.

"M'kay. Next time you're lounging in the tub, inviting me in, I'll know it's strictly so we can wash efficiently."

"Why don't you let me take care of—of that?"

Connor doesn't wait for an answer. He shifts and rests his nose behind Hank's ear, probably getting a good whiff of Hank's dried sweat from his stint in the garage. Also, if Hank is being honest, it's not a spot he remembers to wash as often as he should. Connor licks the skin there.

It's Hank's turn to laugh. He feels giddy, almost dizzy with it. Of course Connor picks one of the dirtiest spots on his body to lick and sample. Whatever Connor finds in his analysis, Hank's doesn't care to know.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant. You'll be ready to rest when I'm done with you."

Hank's laughter turns into a whine; something about the combination of Connor's tone and the use of Hank's rank. He slumps further into Connor's embrace, ready to let him take the lead.

"But you should wash first."

"Fuck. Don't you fucking dare. Connor!"

Connor pecks his cheek and tells Hank, "Patience." The little shit.

Hank huffs through his nose, annoyed and itching with the stirrings of want, deep in his belly.

Connor reaches behind them for the soap and brings it to a lather between his hands. Hank stares at Connor's hands, hums in appreciation when Connor begins to wash him with his hands rather than a washcloth.

Connor takes his time, washes Hank with long, lingering touches over his shoulders and arms. He twines their hands, working the lather over his palms, the back of his hands, then between each fingers. He dips their joined hands under the water to rinse the suds.

Hank can't take his eyes off Connor's hands, entranced and turning to putty under them. It's more like a massage with soap than a true washing, and Hank's skin feels too tight in a way that has nothing to do with lust. His hands, once Connor lets go of them to wash his chest, start to shake in a way he hopes isn't perceptible.

Connor prefers to take his time in bed, indulge in long and thorough explorations of Hank's body on those days when Hank can allow himself to be on display. Hank knows he's always put an end to it before Connor's had his fill. This is a lot like those days, and Hank is slipping into that disjointing sensation of too much and not enough; it's overwhelming to be subjected to Connor's constant attention and care, but his touch isn't enough to let Hank escape the awareness that he's allowing this.

"Hey—" Hank's voice comes out as a weak, uncertain rasp, and he clears his throat. "I can't… Say something. Please."

"You're doing so well, Hank." Connor rests his chin on Hank's shoulder, whispering the words against his neck.

No. No, that's worse. Hank squeezes his eyes shut. Connor soothes his hands along Hank's thighs, and Hank's skin burns under the repetitive motion.

"Thank you for letting me—" Connor stops, hands still and body tense behind Hank.

Hank reaches back to cup his cheek. "What is it, darling?"

Connor sighs, licks his neck—which he hasn't washed yet.

"Thank you for letting me take care of you. For not shying away."

Hank's eyes sting. He doesn't mean to deny Connor, that's not why… He can only fight the urge to squirm away from Connor's concentrated attention for so long

"Sorry. I just can't, some days. It's too much."

Connor guides Hank's legs up to wash his calves. When he switches from left to right, he scrapes his teeth against Hank's neck in passing, and Hank gasps and jerks at the sudden hint of not quite pain that breaks through the dizzying caresses. Around them, water thrashes up the curves of the tub. Hank thinks he hears it splash on the tiled floor.

Connor pushes Hank's leg underwater once he's done, and returns his arms around Hank's chest, guiding Hank closer to him after he'd slipped down the tub.

"Will you let me take care of you?"

Hank is breathing very hard through his nose and it takes him a few moments to register Connor's words.

"Wha—? Yeah." Connor's _been_ taking care of him.

"I've got you."

"Yeah. Okay."

Connor chuckles—a little mocking, a lot fond—and Hank realizes why when Connor gives Hank's dick a second swipe.

"I got you," Connor says, it sounds a little like a question.

"Yes," Hank says, with more conviction this time.

Hank had barely registered the first touch to his dick as something different from the seemingly permanent tingling of his skin, everywhere Connor has touched him. As if Connor's touch has sunk into Hank's skin and lingers there for him to keep.

Connor's touch is lazy, but Hank is close already, after what felt like an hour under Connor's hands.

Connor kisses and licks over Hank's skin like he can't get enough. Hank is panting now and can't quite find enough breath or the right position for the kiss he craves. Instead, he finds Connor's thumb pressing on his bottom lip.

When Connor's other thumb swipes the beading precome pearling at the tip of his dick, Hank gasps and Connor slides three fingers into his mouth, pressing down on Hank's tongue.

Hank moans, head falling back on Connor's shoulder when his body seems to slacken with the heat that's coursing through him. He wants to thrust up his hip, to ask for a stronger, faster grip, but he has no traction, hands slipping on the rim of the tub; Connor holds him still with the arm wrapped around his hip to reach his dick.

Even the fingers in his mouth are sliding over his tongue, fucking his mouth, at a pace that feels designed to drive him mad. Connor pulls the fingers out at intervals, allowing Hank to gulp in lungfuls of air. The fingers drag saliva along with them when they go and Hank briefly wonders what he must look like, lips and beard progressively turning into a slick mess.

Something tingles against Hank's tongue and when he opens his eyes, Hank sees that Connor's skin has deactivated to his elbow.

"Sorry, I can't…control. I—"

Connor's instinctive attempt to interface feels like static electricity. Hank can't answer in the way he wants, though all of him echoes with the urge to reach out, to connect. He wants to tell Connor, _yes, that's right._

Hank taps a finger against the panel midway up Connor's forearm. It slides open with a hiss, and Connor sighs in relief.

The angle makes it near impossible to see what he's doing, but Hank is used to finding the cables dedicated to interfacing whether he can see them or not. It's a tight fit for Hank's large hand and he can just about brush the right cables with his fingertips.

Behind him, Connor curls forward with the first scrape of nail against the bundled cables. His moan is garbled, laced with static.

A delighted sort of warmth twines with Hank's arousal, pooling and filling his belly. He's verging on oversensitive with how long he's been hard and with the time Connor spent, simply touching him. He doesn't know where to look. His eyes wander from where his legs brush against Connor's under the water, to Connor's hand around his dick, and to the way Connor's skin is deactivating in patches wherever they touch.

Hank closes his eyes. He wants to let go, but also to test how long he can last, how deeply he can go into this slow wave that's overtaking him. He tries to focus on Connor. He teases the cables and sucks harder on Connor's fingers, breathing through his nose to keep Connor in for longer and longer periods. The inside of his hollowed cheeks turn numb from the low current as Connor keeps trying to interface with Hank.

Connor is panting, too, trying to cool his systems. Larger patches of his chassis are showing and if Hank's mouth was free, he'd tell him to just turn it all off.

Hank grips Connor's cables as best he can while his fingers are coated with internal lubricant. He rubs them, scrapes them with a nail again just as Connor's mouth moves back to behind Hank's ear, licking the sensitive skin.

Connor comes with a drawn out groan.

Carefully, Hank pulls out his fingers and closes the access panel. He swipes his tongue over Connor's fingers one last time before releasing them.

"Nngh."

"You okay back there?"

Hank reaches back, meaning to run his fingers through Connor's hair, but he stills, remembering that his hand is slick with lubricant. Before he can pull his hand back, Connor leans forward, offering his cheek. Hank cups Connor's face, thumb rubbing circles over his cheekbone.

"Yes. I…" Connor pauses to pull in more cooling air.

Hank pats Connor thigh as he settles down.

"I didn't expect that so soon," Connor says, voice laced with annoyance.

Hank smirks to himself. It's a thrill to know he made Connor feel so good his processors couldn't keep up.

Hank pulls on Connor wrist, bringing his arm up until he can kiss the closed access panel.

"Hank." Connor sighs, his hot breath tickles Hank's throat.

Without warning, Hank is pulled up, ass rising from the from the bottom of the tub as Connor slides sideways, his back to the tiled wall—a tight fit even in the oversized tub—and deposits Hank in his lap.

"I said I'd take care of you." Connor frown like he's disappointed in himself.

"If you think making you come does nothing for me, then I have some news for you, sweetheart."

Connor smiles, lopsided and dorky. Fucking gorgeous.

Hank cups Connor's neck in both hands, letting his fingers brush the fine hairs of his nape as he peppers kisses on Connor's eyelids, his nose, his cheeks. He lingers over a mole that's on his path to Connor's mouth, and Connor wraps his arms around Hank, squeezing his sides a little too tight.

Hank pulls back to watch Connor who keeps his eyes closed, his mouth hanging open. When Hank takes too long, just looking at Connor, he's pulled down by the scruff. Connor kisses him, open-mouthed, his tongue licks the seal of Hank's lips then slips into his mouth. He surges forward the second Hank lets him in, as if Connor had been waiting for this, just this, all along.

Connor's nails scratch lightly over Hank's neck, sending delighted shivers down his spine. Connor grabs fistfuls of Hank's hair and pulls just enough that Hank groans, straining against him to maintain the kiss.

Connor returns a hand to Hank's cock. They gasp apart and look down at Connor's hand pumping Hank from root to tip. Precome drips freely now, and Connor gathers it to ease his grip. Hank's thighs and stomach jump with every swipe of Connor's thumb across the slit.

"Con…Connor, darling." Hank babbles, he doesn't know what he's saying. Being touched again after the brief break makes his head spin, all of it rushing back to him at once.

"You're beautiful," Connor says, eyes roaming over Hank's body. He looks up, meets Hank's gaze as he presses a hand over Hank's trembling stomach. "I've missed you."

Something inside Hank snaps. It's a release and a breaking all at once. He comes into Connor's cupped hand and collapses forward, trusting that Connor can take it.

His body shakes, wracked with aftershocks. Time feels slurred and Hank can't hear over the sound of his slowing breaths. When he's alert enough to pull back, Connor reaches for a washcloth and wipes his hand mostly clean, then licks the rest of Hank's come, just a sample. Still, Hank appreciates that Connor didn't let him come in the bathwater.

Connor wipes Hank's wilting cock with the washcloth and Hank hisses, trying to pull away when it feels too harsh—almost like it's scraping at the top layer of skin—after the smoothness of Connor's touch.

"Too much."

"Hmm." Connor puts the washcloth aside and pets Hank's thighs as if he's not quite done with Hank yet. Hank looks at him, weary. "How do you feel?"

Hank needs a moment to take stock. "Cold. And like I could sleep for a year. But…good." It's inadequate, but Connor smiles at him and Hank smiles back, feeling lighter, like he shed something when he wasn't paying attention.

Connor kisses him. It's less desperate this time and Connor nips at Hank's lips, draws Hank's tongue into his mouth. He leans his forehead against Hank's when he pulls back, running his fingers through the damp ends of Hank's hair.

"You hair needs a wash."

Hank rubs a hand over his face. He wants to get in bed and sleep away the rest of the day. Ideally, with Connor wrapped around him.

"Tomorrow."

"Let me wash it for you."

"The water's gone cold."

Connor frowns when he looks down at the water. He hadn't noticed, it seems.

Connor slides sideways to the head of the tub, Hank held firmly in place on his folded legs. Hank huffs, shakes his head; there's something thrilling about the casual ways Connor displays his strength.

Connor drains a good third of the water before he fills it back with hot water. He grabs the shampoo bottle from a shelf and shuffles to kneel behind Hank.

"Dunk."

Hank complies, running his fingers through his hair. With the back of his head underwater, his hair has a weight to it and he can feel it shift around his head, pulled by the current of the filling bath.

Connor takes his time washing Hank's hair. He massages the shampoo into Hank's scalp, all the way down the tips, but he doesn't linger the way he had while washing Hank's body.

Hank's mind is pleasantly empty of everything except the soothing pressure of Connor's fingers. The circular motions bring him closer to sleep as they releases some remaining tension.

"You can rinse off," Connor says, his voice quiet. Possibly he's noticed Hank listing forward, ready for bed.

Hank rinses off, and strictly refuses when Connor reaches for the conditioner.

"You'll have to carry me to bed if I have to sit here another minute."

"I can do that," Connor says, taking it as an offer rather than an objection.

"No fucking way," Hank says, cutting off mid-sentence to yawn. "I'm getting out now."

"Let me wipe the floor first."

Connor climbs out, careful as he crosses the floor. Hank notices for the first time the large puddles stretching from the tub to the sink. That's what they get, Hank thinks, two grown ass men having sex in the bath.

Connor doesn't dress as he uses old towels to mops up the floor. Hank falls into a bit of a daze, watching the flex of Connor's back and arms as he bends to clear the floor.

Connor dumps the wet towels in the laundry basket and catches Hank's stare when he turns, holding two fresh towels. Connor smirks, smug, and Hank wonders exactly how dazed he looks.

Conor helps him out of the bath when Hank's legs turn to jelly. They dry off in silence. Hank is exhausted, but also buzzing with some low-level energy. He wants the slide of Connor's skin against his again, not sex, just some tamer version of the burn he'd felt earlier.

"Come to bed with me?"

"Yes. Alright." Connor looks a little surprised by Hank's request, which unsettles Hank somewhat, but he's too satisfied to pay it attention.

It's barely gone four when they make their way to the bedroom, towel-dry and, in Hank's case, nearly asleep.

Hank pulls an extra blanket from the shelf in his closet and throws it on top of the bed; they never did get around to setting up the generator. That will be a problem for tomorrow. He puts on only a t-shirt and boxers before he climbs into bed, leaving as much skin uncovered as he can. He opens his arms to Connor and sighs, content, when Connor curls against his side. Connor slips a hand under Hank's shirt, rucking it up so he can run his fingers through Hank's chest hair.

Sleep is dragging Hank under, weighing his mind and limbs, when Connor speaks.

"You know, I had hoped that being a deviant would help me predict emotional reactions." Connor's voice is quiet, a secret admission he's only daring to voice in the privacy of their bedroom.

Hank tries to stay awake long enough to hear him through, but it's difficult to pay attention when he's so perfectly ready for sleep.

"Mhm?" Hank prompts.

"Sometimes, it seems more difficult to understand emotions now that I can feel, too. There are nuances and… impacts I didn't see, or care to take into account, before."

Hank sighs as he rearranges the pillows behind his head. He shifts around to find a position that will let him stay alert for a little while longer. This is too philosophical a conversation to have right before sleep.

"My predictions aren't always accurate. It's not like preconstructing a fight." Connor sounds frustrated.

"I don’t know what to tell you." Hank yawns, pauses to gather the stray thoughts passing through his sluggish brain. "But, yeah. Most people wish they could predict reactions. We all gotta do without."

Hank hopes that settles it and for a long moment there is blissful silence.

"When I asked about Cole's things, I didn't expect—"

Hank freezes. His heart hammers painfully in his chest, and anger bubbles up, clearing away all traces of sleep.

"You knew what you were doing. You meant to push me."

"Yes." Connor admits it so readily that Hank has to wonder what was the point of the preamble. "You've been shutting me out and not only about— about Cole. Other things, too. It's been getting worse." Connor's voice is flat, not a hint of reproach. Still, Hank's stomach twists with guilt.

"So you decided to force my hand?"

"Asking didn't work."

Hank scoffs. Connor's fingers twitch against his chest, and Hank chances a glance down to see Connor's expression. His face is blank in a way that can only be intentional. It pains Hank to see Connor shut himself off. And that, Hank knows, must be the point.

Hank forces himself to relax, to bring the tone back to something a little more civil. It's not easy, with Connor bringing up Cole, and the sudden realization that Connor had cornered him. He'd been too groggy in the aftermath of his panic attack to realize it, but now it seems obvious. "You never asked why I didn't want you in the garage."

"No. But you never told me either, Hank. Besides, when I asked you about the trip to Ann Arbor, you tried to avoid the subject."

Hank rubs his forehead. Connor is giving him a headache with this conversation.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's a pattern, Hank."

"You're not letting anything slide, are you?"

"No."

"Fucking—. Fine."

Connor wraps his arms around Hank's waist, presses a kiss to his shoulder. Maybe it's meant as an apology, but Hank isn't ready to accept it. Still, in spite of himself, Hank starts to relax; he's so used to melting when Connor holds him. It doesn't make talking about his hangups easy, though.

"Just doesn't seem worth it. The trip, I mean."

"Why not?"

"Because." Hank looks away, stares at the ceiling. "Because it's only for me."

Connor sighs, a warm puff of air against Hank's skin. Hank has the impression that Connor isn't entirely surprised by his admission.

"How close was your guess?"

"I don't guess. I know you well enough."

"Thought you couldn't preconstruct emotional responses."

"I… Not when it comes to Cole," Connor whispers. It sounds like an apology. "I don't have enough conversations to draw from."

"Oh." Hank considers his words carefully. After CyberLife tower, he had fallen back into the old habit of simply not talking about his son, not with anyone. "I had a panic attack," Hank says, not entirely sure where he's going with this even as the words leave him in a rush.

Connor's breathing stutters against Hank's neck.

"Because you had to go into the garage?"

"No." Hank pauses, thinks about it. "There were other reasons, too. I was worried about how you'd react if you saw…" Hank can't explain to himself why he'd been so afraid of Connor seeing Cole's boxes. What would've been so horrible? Except that Connor would've known Hank had shut him out of a part of his life. Which, turns out, Connor had already known.

"Oh."

"I don't always know how I'll react, Connor. Don't expect the impossible of yourself."

They stay silent for a while, but Hank can't help poking at this particular itch; he needs to know how much damage he caused, even unintentionally.

"Tell me. Why did you think I didn't want to go on the trip?"

Connor sighs.

"I'm not letting it go either, darling."

Hank shifts to look at Connor when he says it, and he's relieved to see Connor exasperated but smiling, just a little, at the corners of his mouth.

"Because," Connor says, staring Hank in the eyes even as his fingers nervously toy with Hank's shirt. "You rarely do things for yourself. You make a point not to do things that you'll enjoy. I know part of you thinks you're not worth the effort."

Hank swallows against the lump forming in his throat. His voice is hoarse when he's able to reply. "You know I have Dr. Garza for that kind of analysis."

"You asked."

"Yeah, well. You don't always have to listen to me."

"Oh, I know."

Hank's snorting laughter is loud and unexpected in the hushed bedroom.

"For what it's worth, I enjoy doing things for you. Simply because you enjoy them. I know you'd rather I don't take on too many chores around the house, and frankly I don’t care for cleaning or doing laundry—"

"You and me both, buddy."

"—But this? Spending time with you and sharing the things you enjoy? Sharing your life? That I want to do." Connor pauses, visibly debating whether he should press on. "I won't compromise on this, Hank."

Hank doesn’t know what to say to that. He can admit to himself: he needed that push. He would find a way out of it if Connor left him with even the smallest bit of leeway.

His throat clicks when he swallows, and it stings momentarily as he searches for the right words.

"It's worth a lot."

*

Hank spends the next few days chewing over their conversation.

Connor's words keep resurfacing in his mind when he least expects it. There is something equally daunting and exhilarating in Connor's commitment. And Hank wants to live up to it, live up to his promise to let in Connor.

He's also a little—alright, a lot—pissed off that all the anxiety he'd built up, planning to tell Connor about the boxes in the garage, came to nothing because Connor beat him to the punch. But he's mostly angry at himself that—although he's figured out what he wants to do to bridge the gap he's allowed to form between them—he's _still_ dragging his feet.

Old habits.

It's their last day off when Hank forces himself to slip back into the garage while Connor is distracted, and finds what he's looking for. His old phone needs charging and Hank curses himself for not thinking about it; he'll need at least an hour to fully charge it, and he can already sense the excuses to put it off pop up in his mind.

Damn, he's really done a number on himself. He doesn't remember being so avoidant, before…

Hank sighs. He plugs the old tangled up charger on the power bar next to his desk and waits until the screen comes to life, making sure it's still in working condition. Once he's heard the three tones startup melody, he hides the charging phone under a pile of paper. Hopefully, Connor won't snoop around his desk before Hank has a chance to sit down with him.

*

They spend that afternoon cleaning, cooking, and doing laundry. Their typical routine on an afternoon before going back to work. It's mindless work neither of them enjoy, but the house is a bigger mess than usual after five days on break.

Connor plays some of Hank's records while they work. He puts on Alike Rees first; her voice is wistful, it lingers over the words as if savouring them. This particular song is about making plans with a lover, but Hank knows it was written about a woman she feared might be too different from her, about a time where they were trying to ignore the problems and let the excitement buoy them through the doubts.

It takes Hank a moment to register which song is playing over the pressure of his own worries. He's already humming along when it sinks in. Hank pauses, rooted in the middle of the living room as he watches the record turn under the needle.

When Connor exits their bedroom with a basket of laundry, Hank catches his gaze. Connor knows he loves this album, and Hank feels absurdly grateful for the gesture, for Connor making their afternoon a little less dreary. He can't find the words to say as much; everything feels flat and clumsy next to Rees' poetry.

Connor sees Hank's struggle. He dumps the basket on the couch and reaches for him, kisses him, a slow press of lips as they unconsciously match the rhythm of the song.

"Come here," Connor says. He slips one hand over the back of Hank's head and pulls him down to press their foreheads together. His other arm wraps around Hank's waist and holds him securely as they sway along to the swelling tempo.

A calm settles over Hank. It's bolstering him in his choice to speak to Connor, later, once his phone is done charging and the house is in order. He wants to show Connor photos of Cole, of his family.

Hank hasn't looked at those photos since he had to pick one for the funeral service. He's a little queasy at the prospect of looking at them again in Connor's company. He doesn't know how he'll react.

But Connor understands him better than anyone has. He didn't give up on him when Hank was being difficult—especially when Hank was being difficult. More importantly, Hank doesn't want to hide from Connor.

In this moment, he knows: it's a relief to be seen.

*

When Connor comes back from walking Sumo after dinner, Hank is already sitting on the couch, waiting for him. He spent the last fifteen minutes nervously flipping the phone between his hands, and he has a new understanding for Connor's coin tricks.

He considered looking at the photos ahead of time, to dull the edge, but he thought that might leave him in tears by the time Connor came home.

"How was it?"

"Not as slippery as I feared," Connor says as he hangs up his coat. The past day has seen a sharp upswing in temperatures and their morning walk was hell on Hank's knees as he tried not so slip and slide down the street; the thin layer of melted water on top of slicked snow made him feel like he was trying to walk on an ice rink.

Connor turns around and Hank sees that he put on Hank's Academy sweatshirt. He almost loses his nerves when he sees it. Connor has a tendency to steal Hank's clothes when he's feeling flirty. When he has hopes for their evenings.

"Connor I—. There's something I'd like to show you."

Connor picks up on his tone and he goes from relaxed to alert in the blink of an eye. Behind him, Hank can hear Sumo lapping at his water bowl. He's already filled it with fresh water and topped up his kibble. Hank also put away the dishes and fluffed the couch cushions as he waited for Connor to return.

Connor snaps him out of his thoughts as he sits on the couch, leaving almost a foot between them.

"Hey. Come here?" Hank holds up his arm and, to his relief, Connor doesn't hesitate to press against Hank's side. He slides an arm around Hank's waist in return. It never stops to amaze Hank just how safe and grounded he feels being held by him.

"Okay," Hank says, more to himself than Connor. "Okay. I—" He fumbles. He practiced some opening words, a way to explain to Connor what this is, but he can't remember a single word now. He takes a deep breath and tries again. "This was my phone from 2028 to 2035."

Connor is very still against him. Hank thinks he's holding his breath.

"I have… photos. Of Cole. And me." Hank's words come out almost like questions, but he barrels through despite the embarrassment of hearing himself sound so unsure. "Sumo is on here, too," he says, trying to joke even thought the smile doesn't quite manifests. His face twists into something more like a grimace.

"I would love to see."

Hank sags in relief. Thank god for Connor.

"Right. Yeah, okay. Good." The smile he offers Connor comes more easily this time.

The photo albums are a mess. The buried memory washes over Hank: he's shit at organizing electronic files, and photo albums are no different. A few have titles like "Sumo" or "Lake vacation", but most only have automatically generated dates.

Hank opens the one marked "Sumo" but the first handful are photos of him with colleagues from the Red Ice Task Force.

"Sorry. I know Sumo is in there, somewhere." Hank's thumb swipes down again and again on the screen. He squints at the tiny photo previews and worries he's made a mess of it already.

"It's alright Hank."

"Yeah. You could probably just touch the phone and see everything that's on here."

Shit. Hank hasn't considered that, before. Would Connor prefer doing it that way? He considers it for half a second and discards the thought. It would feel like cheating, like a cop out. He's trying to let Connor into his life, not dump information on him.

"I don't know." Connor doesn't sound thrilled at the idea.

"No. Nevermind. I wanted to tell you about the photos."

Connor's eyes go wide with interest. Hank laughs a little, nervous and not sure why he finds this funny; Connor looks like he's being offered something he's wanted desperately, but never dared hope to receive.

Hank finds the pictures he was searching for, finally: Sumo as a puppy, maybe three months old. Hank had picked him up alone from the breeder as a surprise for Cole. The first photos are of an excited puppy letting Hank put a harness and leash on him.

"He was so small," Connor says in awe.

The breeder had taken a picture of Hank holding up Sumo. The puppy fits comfortably in the crook of Hank's arm and he's straining upwards to lick Hank's jaw. Hank's eyes are screwed tight as he laughs, surprised and pleased that this dog has already taken a shine to him.

It's a happy photo, a happy memory. But the emotion is distant, and Hank strains to keep smiling. His fingers feel cold and sweat is gathering in his palm. He flexes his fingers, tries to get a better grip on the hard case of the phone. When was the last time he was so happy? When was the last time being happy came so easily to him?

He's been better in the past year. Connor and therapy and medication are all helping. But he doesn't know if he'll ever get back to where he was that day.

When he'd thought about showing Connor the photos on his old phone, part of Hank had wanted to show Connor what he'd been like before his life went to hell. To prove he hadn't always been such a fucking mess.

He'd wanted Connor to see him with his shit together.

Now that he sees it for himself…

Maybe this whole exercise is unfair. Maybe he shouldn't show Connor a man Hank might never be again. Hell, sometimes it feels as if those years happened to someone else.

"Hank?"

He's been staring at the picture without saying a word for too long, and now Connor has noticed that something's wrong.

"Sorry. It's nothing."

Connor hesitates. Hank can see how much it costs Connor to set aside what he wants, to put Hank's needs first. "You don't have to do this, Hank. If it's too much—"

"Nah. I just." He doesn't know how to explain. He shrugs and pushes forward, going through more photos until he finds the one of Cole meeting Sumo for the first time.

"There they—" Hank's voices strains, catches on the words and falls silent. His eyes burn with tears, distorting the sight of the phone shaking in his hands.

Connor takes the phone from him and sets it aside. Hank can't help it, he hides behind his hands. Needs the pretence of being able to keep some things to himself.

Connor's arms shift around him, and Hank is pulled halfway onto Connor. His head is gently guided down and tucked in the crook of Connor's shoulder. Hank can hide there. He can also hold Connor back, grabbing fistfuls of his sweatshirt.

When the first sob rips out of him, it's like a punch to his sternum. It hurts. The pain is so overwhelming that he loses track of whether he's breathing in or out.

"Hank."

Hank cries and shakes in Connor's arms, overwhelmed and exhausted to be doing this again, for the second time in a handful of days. After years of numbing his grief, Hank feels like the process is trying to happen all at once.

"Hank, you have to breathe."

He can't form words, can't tell Connor he's forgotten how. His fingers grasp at Connor's hoodie and tug, trying to make Connor understand.

"In. And out. Slow down. In… Yes, that's good. And out."

Hank must be doing it. The dizziness lifts after a while and leaves behind a pulsing headache.

He remains in Connor's arms. He aches all over from crying, and isn't able to stop for some time. But he also doesn't want to; there's a solace in the tears, in allowing himself to _hurt_. Connor makes no attempt to shush him now that Hank isn't in danger of hyperventilating.

Hank reflects that he shouldn't have started with photos of that day. By the time Cole was born, he'd made peace with being a single parent. He told himself that he didn't need a life partner, but the way he'd pictured his family had always included kids and a large dog. That day, his family had come together, finally complete. A dream crystallizing.

Some time later, when Hank gathers himself and pulls away from Connor, he feels a jolt of embarrassment. Not for crying, but because he's done exactly what he'd tried to avoid; he jumped ahead of himself instead of taking things one step at a time. His therapist has warned him about his tendency to overestimate his ability to stick an emotional landing, and this time he face-planted in a truly spectacular manner.

He's vaguely aware that he's digging himself into a deeper emotional hole with this internal berating, when Connor gently touches his face.

Hank startles, looking up at Connor who's wiping away the wet trails with his thumbs.

"That better not go in your mouth."

Connor smiles, sheepish, and Hank huffs.

Connor pulls his sweatshirt's sleeve over his hand and wipes away the rest of the tears with the soft cotton. "Is this okay?"

Hank ignores the light tease in Connor's tone.

"Yeah."

Connor leans in to kiss his forehead. Hank's body shudders as the remaining tension leaves him. Like after his panic attack, Hank feels wrung out. He approached this all wrong, and he knows he could reasonably call it a day.

"I… I need a minute."

"Whatever you need, Hank."

Hank smiles a little at that, squeezes Connor's hand as he gets up.

He drinks a glass of water over the kitchen sink and splashes his face with cold water.

"Don't be embarrassed," Connor says as Hank returns to the couch.

"Why not? I picked the worse folder right off the bat."

"Did you think any of them would be easy to look through?"

"No," he drawls, throwing Connor a glare.

"What is it, then?"

Hank opens his mouth, can't think of what to say and closes it with a clack of teeth. He sighs and shakes his head. "I'm not ready to talk about it." Hank debates adding a 'yet' at the end of the sentence, but he's not in a frame of mind where he can confidently make promises.

"Alright."

Connor is halfway out of his seat when Hank grabs his arm.

"Wait."

Connor sinks back into the couch and Hank reaches around him to take his phone.

"You don't have to."

"I know," Hank says, staring down at the phone as he opens the photo app again.

Connor's hand covers the screen, and Hank looks up.

"We do this, only if you want to." He sounds sincere. Hank can't detect so much as a hint of Connor's earlier eagerness, and part of him feels relieved to know he could end it here. He's tired, and they are expected back at work first thing in the morning. Ultimately, though, the lack of expectations only confirms Hank's decision to share more memories with Connor. (Hanks knows this could be Connor using one of his negotiation tactics, but he would make the same decision either way.)

"Yes. I know."

Connor scrutinizes his face, but he removes his hand from the screen.

Hank takes his time to look through the albums again. He opens a few, scrolling through the content preview before tapping back out of them. Holidays are a no, as are the albums where Cole is still an infant.

When Hank comes to the end of the list, he swipes back to the most recent albums and finally finds one that he wants to look through.

It's from a day at the park. He'd brought Connor to that park, once. He'd been hungover and realized on the drive over that he couldn't stand setting foot there without more alcohol. He'd still wanted to bring Connor to the park, though, for a reason he couldn't quite understand at the time.

"This was… a few weeks before Cole started first grade." Hank angles the phone towards Connor so they can both see the screen. He stops for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"You use to go there a lot."

"Yeah. But maybe not as often as I should have."

Connor glances at him, frowning.

"I—" Hank clears his throat. "There were long stretches of time where I wasn't around as much as I would've liked." His voice grows thin, but this time he only feels anger at himself. He'd rationalized being a single parent with a demanding job. "I thought I could make up for it later. Maybe request a transfer to an administrative job within the Department."

Connor has the grace not to point out how Hank would've hated being stuck at a desk all day. He slips a hand over Hank's thigh, leans against his side.

"I didn't want to go to the park that day. It had been raining, pouring for days." He can still picture Cole, restless and irritable after being stuck indoors for so long.

The first picture shows Cole at the dog park. He's petting a Pomeranian, kneeling down in the fresh mud.

Hank huffs, amused. "Tried to make him wear his rain-proof pants over his jeans, but he managed to shimmy out of them on the drive there. I only noticed once his knees were already caked in mud."

Hank goes through several photos: Cole holding up a worm; Sumo licking Cole's face; Cole coming down a yellow slide, arms thrown up; and Hank pushing Cole on the swings.

"I guess another one of the parents took that one." He pauses here to look at Connor who's staring intently at the phone. His LED is blue, but Hank has the impression that Connor is committing every word, every image, to memory.

"The park was always full of families on weekends. It could be a bit of a nightmare, sometimes," Hank says, smiling sadly. Connor squeezes his thigh. "I lost track of him. Turned away for a minute. I was talking to other parents, you know? And one second he's running around with a couple of kids. The next, I can't find him."

He'd been terrified. "Being a cop isn't worth a damn in that moment when you realize you can't find your kid. When he's not answering when you call his name."

Connor shifts, uneasy. "He couldn't have gone far. Right?"

"Nah." Connor shoots him an annoyed look. "But it's the most scared I've ever been in my life." He meets Connor's eyes when he says it and knows that Connor will understand the depth of his fear. Even now, thinking back on it, Hank has the urge to check on Cole—

"Where was he?"

"Um. He was just outside the play area. That part of the park is covered in rubber mats. It was the only somewhat dry place in the entire park. So, of course, Cole went and found a mud hole."

Hank swipes through a few photos until he finds the one he'd taken after he'd calmed down. It looks like the planting of a new row of saplings had been interrupted by the weather, and the city workers had left an orange cone next to the hole as a warning. Or a beacon for any five year olds. Cole and another kid sit squarely in the hole, painting each other's faces with the mud.

Connor snorts and covers his mouth, glancing at Hank with wide eyes.

"Sorry."

"Don't be." Hank smiles, too. Something grows under his rib cage as he scrutinizes Cole's small face shining up at him.

He swipes to his favourite photo. He'd meant to print and frame it, but had never gotten around to it.

Hank and Cole's faces are pressed together for the photo. Cole's muddy hand has left a smear across Hank's beard and nose. They're smiling at the camera. Cole is laughing so hard he's doing that thing little kids do and tearing up, overwhelmed, overjoyed.

"He has your smile," Connor says in a whisper.

"Yes." Hank had been absurdly proud when Cole's adult front teeth had come in, and it turned out he had Hank's tooth gap.

The sensation under his ribs swells and bursts.

_This man,_ Hank thinks as he stares at his younger self, _he would've missed his son. He would've missed him so completely that he wouldn't have known how to keep going._

"I miss him."

Hank has never said it before. Hasn't allowed himself to say it.

He hadn't known how to go on afterwards. He hadn't expected to keep going as long as he'd had.

"I haven't… I don't know how. To miss him." He feels panic rising, the urge for a drink. He squashes the thought before it can take a hold of him. "With the drinking and the job and—. And playing Russian roulette. I hadn't planned on living long enough."

Connor said Hank has been punishing himself, and that's not entirely untrue. But Hank has been hiding from this, too. He thought he'd been too deep in his grief, but he'd been deep in all the ways to avoid the feeling of missing Cole.

"I'm not sure how to do this. I haven't let myself miss him without burying it under guilt and anger."

It's been four years and he has no fucking clue how to miss Cole. How to simply, painfully, miss his son.

"I know," Connor says. His voice is thick with grief for Hank.

"I need to miss him," Hank says, he's not entirely certain what he means by it, but it feels right. Like finally, he might do something right by Cole.

"I know," Connor repeats. "We'll figure it out. Together, if you want?"

Hank's first impulse is to object, to say Connor doesn't have to do the work for him; it's Hank's grief to figure out. It's well overdue. But if anything, this evening, the last week, has shown him he can't do this alone. Alone means going back to waiting for his life to end, prompting the end when the waiting becomes unbearable.

"Yes. Together, that's what I want."

Hank wipes the wet trails from his cheeks. Connor looks at him, he's not exactly smiling, but there is something hopeful in his expression. Hank stares back; he feels it, too.

*

The next morning, Hank feels hollowed out, but lighter. He's up before his alarm despite falling asleep late.

Hank lingers in the shower, soaking in the precious extra minutes and uses them to let the hot water wake him up. Afterwards, Connor takes his place in the shower while Hank brushes his teeth, still lost in a comfortable haze.

Hank wants to clear last night from his mind, compartmentalize it for the day; it's something he'd rather not bring into work. There's something else, though. One last thing he wants to settle before they leave the house.

The sharpie marker is almost weightless in his fingers as Hank unlocks the garage door.

Now that he's realized he's been stuck in the same mental place for so long, Hank is itching to get out of it.

He walks to the shelf, to Cole's unlabeled boxes. Hank can still recall their exact content. It seems odd now, that his brain has latched onto this of all things.

It might be too much too soon, but he needs to try; Hank wants to unload the memory onto the box.

His chest rises and falls under his controlled breaths.

The tip of the marker presses against cardboard. Stills.

He can't. Not yet.

"Dammit." He lets his head droop and press against the cold metal shelf.

Eventually, he returns to the bathroom. Connor is out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. He looks up when Hank enters.

"I couldn't."

Connor nods in acceptance.

Hank grabs the post-it pad he keeps in the pharmacy behind the mirror. He can smell Connor's soap in the steam filling the bathroom, something spicy.

Hank takes a step towards the door, but changes his mind. He spins on his heel and wraps his arms around Connor. The kiss is slow, lazy and it buoys Hank. Connor tastes familiar: clean, like the soap on his lips, and a little bit metallic from his analysis fluid.

Connor's surprised and delighted laughter follows him into the hallway, the sound spilling into the garage alongside Hank.

Hank stands in front of Cole's boxes, shivering in the cold damp as he hesitates.

He remembers Dr. Garza's words, _When you need to climb a flight of stairs, do you leap there in a single jump? Or do you take it one stair at a time?_

Hank draws a set of stairs. He puts today's date on the bottom step and sticks the post-it to the shelf.

It's not what he'd hoped to accomplish this morning.

But it's a step. He'll get there.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ani and the HCRBB mods for organizing this and offering support and guidance throughout the process. Also, thanks for allowing me an extension when I had computer issues, then fell sick for most of September. 
> 
> And finally many thanks to my friend [swearwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swearwollf) for the encouragements and listening to me despair about this project. <3


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